


Soldier's Boy

by merrabeth



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: A.U.gust, M/M, Soldier's Girl!AU, if there's a tag for Mickey being a soldier, oh yeah, soldier!Mickey, there's some guy named Wylie also, uhhh, what else, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 00:04:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2208060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrabeth/pseuds/merrabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, what’re you doin’ here, soldier?” Ian asked, his voice a little playful. “This your type of place?”</p><p>Mickey opened his mouth, but no answer came. He was so sure he’d say “Nah” but Ian eyed him up and down, sizing him up and he liked it. Ian took his silence and went on. “Maybe you don’t know if this is your type of place.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soldier's Boy

**Author's Note:**

> So, if you've seen the movie, you know how amazing it would be in a Gallavich situation. If you haven't seen the movie, I'd suggest doing so and Imagine Ian and Mickey the whole time

Enter stage left: Ian Gallagher.

But he’s not known as Ian Gallagher here. On stage, under the blue and green and white flashing lights, he’s Curtis or Red or Ginger Snap or any other pathetically unoriginal and unappealing name the guys here can think of. He’s become morbidly numb to what used to scare him the most, and the funny part is that there was no need for any of this.

Ian’s not an exotic dancer or a fucking _burlesque_ artist. He’s a fucking stripper and he’s gotten bitter about the many people who just won’t own up to their titles. He understands what he does is pretty low, but after getting leveled out, he didn’t care because it was easy money.

He’s the main feature tonight, which means more money. He walks down the stage, his heart beating and the bass wracking at his ear drums. He’s numb to it all, but he’s still a bit scared.

* * *

 

Mickey stood in front of the commanding officer- and _now_ he was questioning what the fuck he was doing there.

For one, he wasn’t really good at following the orders of the state, let alone a single _man_. So he wheeled over his reasoning again for deciding to join. Oh right: his dad.

When he was on the bus bound for this station, he replayed the scene over and over in his head, hearing Mandy say that this was for the best, him leaving all together. She promised she’d be okay, and though he wanted to doubt her words, he knew his little sister was strong and could be brought up when the toughest came tumbling down- they all get fed up at some point. But Mickey acted in running, not out of fear for his own safety, but for others around him.

His held his hands behind his back, fumbling with them mindlessly at the awkward position. The commanding officer eyed him up and down from over his sheet. Mickey was determined to not back down from his cold, intimidating brown eyes, but as the silent wavered longer and longer, his patience was stretching too thin.

“Mr. Milkovich,” he started, finally. “Do you have any combat training?”

Well, not exactly. “I’ve used a gun before, and have extensive knowledge on how to use many types…sir,” he added, the word so foreign to his lips, he might as well have been speaking Spanish.

“That didn’t answer my question, Mr. Milkovich.” He sighed, his eyes weary. He sat back in his chair, looking to Mickey with sympathy. “Are you runnin’ from something?”

Mickey almost hesitated. “No, sir.”

He was a hard man, the commanding officer was. But he seemed to soften as he saw the pale boy before him. He must’ve seen what Mickey had been hiding for years: someone broken into millions of pieces. “It’s better if you tell me now before you go to your fellow soldiers.”

Mickey’s irritation grew stronger, glaring at the man before him. Mickey was so close to being in, to having some sort of solace in something he could learn to understand. And here this guy was, trying to rip Mickey’s sob story of a life out of him and maybe pity him or some shit. Mickey just wanted in. He _needed_ to be in.

“It’s all behind me. I had problems. I drank too much alcohol and I smoked too much. But I can handle myself.” His jaw was clenched as he spit his words. “Sir,” he added.

He gathered his senses, nodding curtly before handing over a paper with his rooming situation. “Welcome to the Army, Mickey Milkovich.”

* * *

 

 And what a welcome he got.

In his first month there, he was the kitty of the litter, the small weakling on campus that got shoved around. It was like a douse of ice water right over his body to realize he suddenly wasn’t the badass to run shit anymore. He wasn’t slow; that wasn’t his problem. He had almost no stamina. He could keep up with the rest for a minute or maybe thirty, but he found himself falling behind the others with a drill sergeant in his ear. He knew if he wasn’t so shot out of energy, he’d have a knife to the guy’s bulging throat.

He’d been left behind, trudging along at night in the forest looking for the clearing where he knew everyone else to be resting. The sun rising, a new day, when he finally made it there. Seeing them lying there took Mickey over the edge. His roommate, Wylie, was smirking at him as he passed. The guy had given him hell and he had to refrain from anything, not wanting to get kicked out of his prison. But after that, Wylie must have seen him to be worthy or something, because Mickey’s off-put attitude drew the guy in more. Mickey took a while to come around, but finally he decided if he could have an ally of any sort, he’d take it.

“Yo, Mickey,” Wyle said as he heaved from his bed in the other corner of their room. “A couple of us are headin’ out tonight. You wanna come?”

Mickey shrugged, not taking his eye off the magazine he was reading. “Where ya goin’?”

“Uh, s’ this club called Mineshaft.” He raised an eyebrow, waiting for Mickey’s answer. He gave a noncommittal sound as he sat up, flinging the magazine down as he got up.

Since the day Mickey and Wyle became comrades, they’d gone out a few times. It was nothing big and Mickey didn’t think much of it; just a bored guy that had nothing better to do than get drunk and go scoping for something dumb to do.

They weren’t in the car that long, Mickey being the designated driver since the happy couple they hung out with on occasion was already going at it.

Allison sighed as she pulled away from Rick for a second to lean between the front seats. “Did you tell Mickey where we were going?”

Wylie nodded. “Yep.” And that was all he would say on the situation. But Mickey saw Allison smile from his peripheral and he knew he’d regret tonight.

The building Mickey parked the car near looked average, but Mickey knew it was what was inside that would have him cringing. Mickey was right.

He heard the cackles of his friends as he flinched away from two guys that were making out on the wall right by the door. Shit.

“Is this a fuckin’ gay club?” he growled, turning to Wylie who feigned innocence as Mickey looked at him.

“Think about it, Mick,” he tried to reason. “Girls are here lookin’ to have a good time. And you don’t have to worry about them goin’ home with anyone else because all the other guys here are fuckin’ fags,” his voice got lower and lower as his explanation went on. He may have looked like a complete imbecile, but he was smart enough to be easy about the words he said aloud in his setting. But that didn’t stop Mickey from squinting his eyes because Wyle _was_ a complete imbecile.

“We have to go to a gay club in order for you to get laid? You know how fuckin’ sad that is?”

Wyle shrugged as he followed Mickey. “Hey if you’d just get me the number of that hot chick you have a picture of-“

Mickey turned, bumping into Wylie with murder in his eyes. “Mandy is my fuckin’ _sister_. And if you ever lay a hand on her, you’re never gonna use that hand again,” he threatened seriously. Wylie sputtered a nervous laugh as he backed off and took lead.

Mickey followed reluctantly, his eyes alert in the dark room. Wyle had found the four of them a table to sit off to the side of the stage. Not to Mickey’s surprise, there seemed to have been a bachelorette party going on, for the table at the head of the stage was filled with chicks on the verge of wasted- or they were naturally loud and obnoxiously annoying, Mickey guessed.

Rick had brought over beers for them when the lights turned low and the blue, green, and red lights focused on the stage. Mickey hadn’t thought much about it when they sat down-it was great he was nothing like his homophobic father- but he was sure he didn’t want to see a fucking gay strip show. He didn’t want to see straight strip show. He’d much rather everyone to keep their clothes on.

He took a sip of his beer as the annoying group of girls went wild. The only thing he approved of at the moment was the song that was playing. It was drowned by the sounds of its gay and drunk patrons, but it was nice, great for the atmosphere.

“Mickey,” Wylie elbowed at him, almost making his beer slosh out of the cup. He wasn’t drunk enough for all this shit. He shot a glare for Wylie to continue. He pointed to the guy behind him. “Look it, we gotta soldier on the front line,” and he presumed to laugh at his own terrible pun.

But curiosity took over as Mickey glanced over his shoulder and saw pale toned legs. He let his eyes wonder up as he watched the guy walk slow and seductively. He wore shorts fashioned out of camouflage, a lot like the cargo pants he wore on a daily basis in training. His breath may have hitched at the sight, but it was hard to tell with his heartbeat racing. The guy’s torso was toned, chiseled like a fucking sculpture. And then there was his face, and he almost turned away when he saw the performer looking down at him. Mickey realized he’d stop walking together. The eyeliner didn’t fool him, though. Mickey could tell he was young, probably not so far off from Mickey’s age of 20 years old.

The boy smirked, and his eyes were hard to make out in the odd lighting of the room. They looked dark, but Mickey was sure they weren’t.

He continued walking towards to the main stage, a circular end, and Mickey watched his every move. The way he slinked down, the way he rolled his hips, the way his abs clenched with a sorted out thrust. Mickey wasn’t sure what he was feeling. It was an odd sense of arousal, not to the point where he was popping an uncontrollable boner, but he was transfixed, amazed by the boy at the end of the stage. It all seemed to flash before his eyes, unfortunately, because there he was, blinking back as an eruption of applause flooded over the already existing sounds.

Mickey took in a deep breath to steady himself as he saw the boy jump off stage, conversing with the ladies and others around him.

“You like that?” he heard Wylie ask in his ear, his hot breath making him lean away.

“What?”

“You were eye fuckin’ that guy for fuckin’ 4 minutes straight,” Wylie slurred.

“And how the fuck would you know with your drunk ass?” Mickey felt his face get heated in defense.

“Hey, if you’re a fag, no one gives a shit, right, guys?” Wylie turned to Allison and Rick. Seeing he’d get no support from their weary gaze, he shrugged. “I can get him for ya, y’know, if you want.”

“Jesus Christ-“

“Yo!” Wylie called out, his voice seeming to bellow over everything , to the young red head (Mickey could tell as much now, at least).

When the red head turned to look at the voice, he made eye contact with Mickey and walked over. But the closer he got, the irritation on his face was clearly written.

“Twenty-five bucks gets you a dance.” His voice was lower than Mickey’d expected, and he sighed his information.

“I believe this man here wants about five of those,” Wylie answered. “He had a boner for you the whole time.”

Mickey was frozen, unaware of how he should react. It’d only been a month and he somehow forgot what he would’ve done in this situation. Beat him up, right? “I- that’s not what happened,” he stuttered out, shaking his head frantically at the red head.

“Oh, don’t be shy, Mickey,” Wylie teased.

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Would you shut the fuck up already?”

“What did you just say to me?” Wylie frowned as he looked to Mickey. But Mickey wasn’t the only one unfazed.

“What, you didn’t hear me?”

“So,” the red head interrupted at the sign of hostility brewing. “Mickey, is it? That’s an interesting name.” He gave a friendly smile that Mickey couldn’t help but reciprocate.

“Uh…it’s short for Michael. Nothin’ fancy or anything like tha-“

“What the _fuck_ did you say to me?” Wylie asked as he stood up. The advantage was that him and Mickey were the same height, which made for a fair fight. Mickey stood up, unafraid of the drunken man.

“You need to get your hearin’ checked out, man.” He shoved him off as he saw Wylie getting closer.

The boy caught on to Wylie as he stumbled back and let him find his stability. “Hey, guys. I’m not that into the security around here and they don’t fuck around so…Mickey, you wanna tour?”

Mickey took half a beat to decide that he was willing to follow the ginger anywhere, though he wasn’t sure where that came from.

He was brought to a room, what he found out to be the “dressing room”. There was better lighting for Mickey to take in the face; his eyes were hazel and his hair was redder than he perceived.

“So, where are you guys comin’ from?” he was fumbling with something on one of the tables.

“Army base just a few miles away.” He saw him nod and continue to fumble. He liked the deepness of this boy’s voice, so he questioned, “What’s your name?”

“Curtis,” he replied tersely.

“You don’t look like a ‘Curtis’.” Mickey walked a bit closer, unable to understand why.

“Curtis” turned to face Mickey, crossing his muscled arms. “What do I look like, then?”

Mickey shrugged. “Dunno, but I’m sure whatever your _real_ name is fits better than fuckin’ _Curtis_.” He smiled again as the ginger dropped his gaze and played at his bottom lip with his teeth.

“It’s Ian,” he confessed.

Mickey nodded. “Yeah. That makes more sense.” He gave a small chuckle.

“So, what’re you doin’ here, soldier?” Ian asked, his voice a little playful. “This your type of place?”

Mickey opened his mouth, but no answer came. He was so sure he’d say “Nah” but Ian eyed him up and down, sizing him up and he liked it. Ian took his silence and went on. “Maybe you don’t know if this is your type of place.”

Mickey bit his lip. “Is this _your_ type of place then? Or is this just the tamer part of you?” Mickey found himself agitated at his inability to ask a simple question. The curiosity on Ian’s face didn’t help. Mickey motioned circles around his own eyes. “You, uh, got any matching mascara to go with-“

“Woah,” Ian interrupted with a laugh. “I’m gay, dude. Not queer,” he clarified.

 _Faggot_. It wasn’t his own voice that echoed the word in his head, but his father’s, and it made a chill run down his spine. He rubbed at his neck, which seemed to have sparked Ian’s interest.

“Do you get shy, Mickey?” He has that small smile again as he walked closer.

“Around half-naked people-“

“Don’t be smart.”

Mickey scoffed. “I don’t supposed _you_ get shy.” Ian laughed.

“I’m always shy. I mask it with irritation because I’m sick of it, y’know. Besides, I have to go out there and be some brazen boy toy or whatever and I learn the tips are better when you act accordingly.”

“If you’re so sick of it, why not quit?” He was genuinely interested in Ian’s answer. His breathing was acting up as Ian stood closer, closing in on half the distance before.

“I could ask the same about you and your friend.”

Mickey kicked himself, remembering minutes prior. “Yeah, I, uh, apologize for his behavior. He can be a dick sometimes.”

Ian raised his eyebrows as if he was impressed. “So you’re a gentleman, is that it?”

Mickey took in a deep breath, failing to make things even. “Fuck, yeah I guess so. Got no clue where it came from, though.” He rubbed at his neck again, now looking up to meet those hazel eyes that reflected a lot more green.

“Why’d you come here tonight?”

“I-I dunno.” It was the honest answer since he was feeling all sorts of confusion as the air thickened and he struggled to breath in the proximity of Ian’s presence.

“Aw, Curtis!” They were interrupted by a voice over others as fellow strippers entered the room. “Are you gonna give your first freebie?” The same guy asked. He winked to them as he passed by. “Pretty special, huh?”

Ian sighed. “I’m sorry.”

Mickey shook his head. “Yeah, no. I should probably go. Gotta take ‘em home.” When Ian nodded he turned to walk out the door. But his eyes were opened to new light as he turned back around, his voice low. “Can I have your number?”

The shock was clear on Ian’s face as he backed up to the table and scribbled something with an eyeliner pencil. He brought the paper over to Mickey, making sure not to touch his hand as he handed it over. “My number,” he presented, his voice hush. “You don’t have to use it, and I’m just sayin’ this now…I refuse to be a test bunny in an experiment.” He searched Mickey’s eyes, the blue of them incredible. Mickey nodded in understanding as he left the room.

Ian waited until Mickey was gone, with a final glance back. He allowed himself to smile then, knowing that he’d defy his own words. Even if Mickey wasn’t sure, Ian wouldn’t dare pass up the chance to be the soldier’s boy.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah...hope you enjoyed this haha


End file.
